


the picture fades too soon

by jenna221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), jukebox omens, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28814523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: I see you smiling in the cigarette glow/ though the picture fades too soon.The window is open oh so slightly. There Crowley leans with his elbow on the sill, cigarette in hand. The sight is ephemeral in the darkened room, with only that weak spark for a light.Aziraphale mirrors Crowley’s stance, drifting closer, and does not mind the chill of the night air against his skin.“You hate tobacco,” he says.Crowley smirks through a trail of smoke. “How do you know?”Aziraphale doesn’t reply. It feels abruptly like showing his hand, to reveal it all—how can he say:You always have a tell, the way your nose wrinkles, my dear. I daresay, over the years, it’s one of the few things that has stayed the same?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73





	the picture fades too soon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Jukebox Omens](https://jukeboxomens.tumblr.com/) event. 
> 
> Song referenced: [They Can't Black Out The Moon.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iQN5mTb6TPc)

They are tiptoeing over rubble, stumbling in the dark. Aziraphale is hardly conscious of making the joke. He trips his way through some quip about the moon being their guiding light, all while feeling like he’s floating through the church ruins.

The reply is nothing more than a sigh, but Aziraphale still finds the sound of Crowley’s laughter hidden within it.

“Just reminded me,” he says, after Aziraphale wheedling for an answer. “It’s a song, that’s all.”

But, that’s not _all_ it is, Aziraphale knows. It never is. He has come to treasure the smallest of things if Crowley happens to like them, has taken the precious time to remember them. The taste of the wine in a Roman tavern; the first glimpse of blue skies after rain; the scent of toasted almonds.

Which is why he (silently, silently) whispers the faint impression of the song into the bookshop, as he opens the door, steps inside, lets his fingers trail across book spines: _he’s back, he’s back, he’s back_.

*

_I see you smiling in the cigarette glow/ though the picture fades too soon._

The window is open oh so slightly. There Crowley leans with his elbow on the sill, cigarette in hand. The sight is ephemeral in the darkened room, with only that weak spark for a light.

Aziraphale mirrors Crowley’s stance, drifting closer, and does not mind the chill of the night air against his skin.

“You hate tobacco,” he says.

Crowley smirks through a trail of smoke. “How do you know?”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply. It feels abruptly like showing his hand, to reveal it all—how can he say: _You always have a tell, the way your nose wrinkles, my dear. I daresay, over the years, it’s one of the few things that has stayed the same?_

He conjures up an ashtray instead (engraved with the shop’s insignia, just to make Crowley laugh).

*

_And like the love-light in your eyes/ They can’t black out the moon._

love-light _n_. radiance (of the eyes) expressing love; an instance of this.

Aziraphale carefully sets the needle upon the record, and watches Crowley’s eyes light up at the sound. 

(As soon as the song had been mentioned, the bookshop had happily acquired it. For, of course, Aziraphale does not cherish books alone).

“’Fraid I need a few more drinks before I join in,” Crowley says, as the orchestra warbles on.

“Now, that _is_ a shame,” Aziraphale retorts, knowing that he has just heard an utter lie.

*

_And when you kiss me, don’t you realise/ that my heart’s like a big balloon?_

They do not kiss. They do not kiss when the record ends, nor when Aziraphale fumbles over lifting the needle, and Crowley’s hand gently guides him. They do not kiss.

But then, dawn breaks, and Crowley is almost out of the door, one foot hovering over the pavement, and… suddenly, his silhouette is hazy, the red of his hair drained amongst the grey sky. Aziraphale is reminded starkly of candlelight, something that could flicker out without warning.

He takes Crowley’s wrist, and Crowley turns, and Aziraphale rises on the balls of his feet— _let me take your weight. Darling, did you feel it, each step inside the shop a balm for holy wounds? I should not be capable of that._

No, it’s not quite a kiss. But, Aziraphale’s lips tremble against Crowley cheek, as he whispers, “Please, don’t—don’t leave it so long again.”

Crowley’s hand moves. He clicks his fingers, and Aziraphale knows, in some little corner of the bookshop, that the gramophone has just been gifted with endless songs.

“You’re not the only one with records, angel,” Crowley murmurs. His smile is wry, but his words are soft.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Yes, quite right.”

Crowley hesitates. Aziraphale strokes his wrist, and feels the drumming of his pulse against his own thumb.

“Tomorrow?” Aziraphale adds, for one of them is sure to bottle it, and he’ll be damned if he is once again the culprit.

Crowley smiles. Radiant. “Tomorrow.” And, when he really does leave, the Bentley’s engine humming, he shouts out the car window, “Not a church this time!”

Aziraphale laughs, and waves him off, and falls a little more in love. 

_But I see all I want to know/ They can’t black out the moon_.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a line mentioning 'They can't black out the moon' in the fic 'the beauty of thy peace', and the song still hasn't let me go! Thank you for reading <3


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